You Know Where the City Is
by speakingthroughbodies
Summary: It was too loud to be 1899. Too loud and too bright. William fought to open his eyes only to slam them shut against the chemical burn of the strange, overly saturated lights coming from the ceiling. He groaned. There was no doubt: this was still 2012. AU, Modern!Jullia William. Takes off from Episode Six of The Murdoch Effect.
1. And This Is How It Starts

_The Murdoch Mysteries_ & its characters are the property of Maureen Jennings, Shaftesbury Films, and ITV Studios. In short: I own nothing. The title & chapter headings are lyrics taken from songs by The 1975.

As stated in the summary, this story takes off from Episode Six of the now-infamous web series _The Murdoch Effect_. You might want to watch that before reading this. Reviews are much appreciated 3

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"-have your gun back for five minutes, and you knock him out!"

"He _asked_ me to!"

It was too loud to be 1899. Too loud and too bright. William fought to open his eyes only to slam them shut against the chemical burn of the strange, overly saturated lights coming from the ceiling. He groaned. There was no doubt: this was still 2012.

"Murdoch? I think he's coming around. Here, get him up before the Inspector sees."

The future Julia was just as adept at moving dead weights as her nineteenth century counterpart. That was good. Reassuring, in a roundabout sort of way. Odds are he would've taken a great deal more comfort in her familiar dexterity if each change in position didn't send his brain thudding against his skull.

"Yeah, like that lard-ass ever leaves his office."

"God, Crabtree. Don't be such a prick."

"Whatever."

Such vulgarities! And yet a second pair of hands was soon helping –well, hauling –him farther up on his feet. With the additional support, William was willing to risk opening his eyes again. There, backlit by the sharp, white light was Julia, looking every bit as divine as Botticelli's _Madonna_ with her golden hair curling free around her shoulders and that peculiar glitter dusted across her eyelids. He'd noticed it earlier, but he couldn't seem to stop staring at it now. It was just so, so -

Oh, dear. George must have hit him very hard indeed.

"I think you gave him a concussion."

"What?!" George caught William's wince and lowered his voice. "C'mon, he's fine. Aren't you, Murdoch?" A friendly shoulder-jostle came close to toppling him, but William managed to reach a hand out to catch his weight against the table.

"Yes, fine." He cleared his throat, forced a smile, "I'm fine."

"See? Nothin' t'worry about." George slapped him on the back again –this was getting a bit ludicrous; to what extent did violence indicate camaraderie in the twenty-first century? And to think he'd found the practice excessive back in 1899. This did not bode well for him.

Well. Nothing did, really, if he was being honest. His tried-and-true method of time travel wasn't working, which left him stranded in this brave new world, as it were, without any clue as to what he was expected to do next. They'd solved the crime, hadn't they? Now he had to go back to 1899 and do the same there. It was only logical. Why couldn't this world just make _sense_?

"Sooo, we done here?" George jerked his thumb over one shoulder, "Cause I've booked some time at the range, and…" Julia rolled her eyes.

"Great. I'll have them send down your 'World's Best Partner' award."

"Such an honor," George clasped his hands over his heart in mock humility. Grinning, he turned on his heel and rounded the corner, calling back after he'd disappeared from view: "See ya tomorrow."

William furrowed his brow. "Tomorrow?" He glanced up at Julia in time to catch a wry smile that made his stomach flip.

"Yeah. You work here now, remember?" She rubbed his shoulder. "You sure you're okay?"

"Fine. Truly."

It wasn't quite a lie. Yes, his head was spinning from the repeated blows, and, yes, the thought of living out the rest of his life here, a hundred and thirteen years ahead of where he'd been when he woke up this morning was so inconceivable, so terrifying that he hadn't even begun to process it. But Julia…

"Come on, I'm driving you home." He blinked. Had he been staring? He was almost certain that he'd been staring. A flush crept up his neck as he quickly searched out something –anything –he could fix his attention on.

"I'm not sure I have a home," he blurted. "No, I mean –" he fumbled at her bewildered expression, "-I, ah, moved and it's been –I wouldn't want to inconvenience-"

"-Look," Julia interrupted, sparing him from scrounging for any more excuses, "You bail me out of a gambler's den, I drive you home after your idiot partner knocks your lights out. Fair's fair. What's your address?"

A fantastic question. William made a show of checking his pockets. What would he say when the search yielded nothing? That he'd forgotten his keys _and _his wallet? If that didn't make Julia suspicious than nothing –wait.

Keys. And a wallet. Right there, in his jacket pocket. But they hadn't –they hadn't been there before! Had they? William pulled the billfold out and opened it quickly to mask the slight tremors creeping through his fingers. A myriad of brightly colored bits of plastic all begged to be examined, but it was the plain piece of cardstock that seized his attention. It was an address.

Taken down in his handwriting.

Wordlessly, he held it out to Julia.


	2. I'm Running Low On Know-how

Thanks for all the reviews, guys! I really, really appreciate the feedback. Hope you enjoy this next chapter.

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The area by the main elevators was busier than he'd ever seen it before. Julia had mentioned a shift change before twisting into the crowd, heading off towards something called a 'motor pool.' Sure enough, a stranger had taken Irwin's place at the front desk. William reached for his watch. Ah, right. No waistcoat, no pocket watch. Well, then. There must be a clock around here somewhere.

Make that six clocks. Each had a placard bearing the name of a different city beneath it: Vancouver, Calgary, Winnipeg, Toronto, Halifax, St. John's. All places he recognized. Yet another item to add to his list of small comforts. And it looked as if this station house –no, station, George had told him to just call it a station –observed a similar schedule to the one he had left behind in 1899. From the outside it looked as if everything was in order, save for the fact that it was now well after seven o'clock. Where had the day gone?

While he was at it –where had the past _century_ gone?

"You set?" Julia's voice jolted William back to the crush of officers weaving in and out of elevators, back and forth through different sets of doors. A band of claustrophobia cinched across his ribs as he tried to track each individual's movements, tried to make some sense –any sense –of what was going on around him. Different uniforms, different insignia, that bizarre, foreign skyline leering at him from the mural –

"Hey." Julia. If he focused on Julia, he would be all right. "Sure you don't want to stop by the ER? Get your head checked?"

"Believe me, Julia, that is the very last thing I would like to do right now."

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, "Let's get you home."

"Yes," he fought to find some conviction, "Home."

"C'mon, the stairs'll be faster than waiting for an elevator in all this." The pull of her fingers against his elbow sent a surge of gratitude through William. Together they slipped through the crowd until they broke free of it entirely, leaving them alone at the mouth of a blessedly empty stairwell. When she let go of his arm, William bit back a whine at the loss of contact. He wasn't ready to be cut adrift of her just yet –he wasn't sure he ever would be, not as long as he stayed in 2012.

On the other hand, at the rate Julia was heading down the stairs, he might not have much choice in the matter. He half-jogged to catch up with her. She certainly was a great deal faster in trousers than in skirts.

"Through here," she announced three flights later. William rushed to open the door for her, but had to settle for catching the remainder of its weight as she strode ahead, oblivious to his belated attempt at chivalry.

"Oh, my…"

They were in a vast underground room, free of walls, paved in concrete, and _filled_ with automobiles. No, cars. George would tell him to say cars. None of them looked quite like George's own, though the blue-and-white color scheme on them seemed like something he might've been drawn to. What were those bars on the tops? Lights? Oh, yes, George would like the lights.

"Sorry, I couldn't req a cruiser," Julia teased. She was leaning against a solid black car a few rows over, long-legged and smiling with her head canted to the side, loose curls splaying against her neck. Blushing, William looked down at his fascinating twenty-first century shoes. She laughed. "Boys and their toys. Get over here, Murdoch."

Gladly. He took pride in the fact that he was able to get into the vehicle without injuring himself further. No doubt this would be a more pleasant experience than his last car ride. Julia finished adjusting the front mirror, her hand dropping so that she could brush her fingers against her lips, smoothing the slight rouge there. It was strange, watching such an intimate act be performed with a deft, automatic touch. And here he was, little more than a stranger to her. Did she even know what she was doing?

"Julia -"

"Hmm?"

Whatever he might've said sputtered out as the engine came to life. The car slid forward, negotiating twists and turns until they were going straight again, following a line of exit signs. He shook his head. "Thank you."

There was that smile again. "Crabtree's driving left an impression, eh?"

"He can be very…_determined_."

Julia snorted. "That's a word for it. You know why he's got his own wheels? Nuked three cruisers the first year he made detective. They haven't let him anywhere near the pool since. Crazy liability. Which reminds me: don't sign anything out for a while, okay?"

"I wasn't planning on it."

The roof of the building gave way to the strangest night sky William had ever seen. Lights poured out of every window, yet there was still an inky haze settled over the streets and buildings. He felt as if he could see for miles in every direction, but his body, held within the dark confines of the car, might as well have been invisible.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes," William breathed. He leaned forward in his seat, hoping for a better view, "I never thought it would be." They passed under a streetlight and for a brief instant Julia's reflection caught against the windscreen. There was a wistfulness clinging to the edges of her eyes, but another new wonder materialized before them, distracting him and letting her lapse into silence.

He couldn't say how long they rode like that. Streets passed, all unfamiliar, all astounding in a profoundly ordinary way, one that he could feel himself warming to in a manner he'd never thought to expect. Before he knew it, Julia had pulled up to the curb in front of a massive, glittering building and stopped the engine.

"I _live_ here? It's huge!"

"Okay," Julia sighed, "Okay, so I was gonna ask if you were good to get in on your own, but now I'm just gonna walk you up. Let's go."

"But –"

"Out, Murdoch."

William fumbled with the latch, lurched forwards, and nearly smacked his head against the door. Julia caught his bicep, steadying him until he was able to find his footing.

"Are you sure this is the right address?"

"It's the one you gave me."

"Maybe there's another." He tried reaching for his wallet, but Julia's firm grip kept him moving forwards.

"Yeah, cause everybody walks around with a fake home address on them. We seriously should've taken you to the ER."

They walked –well, Julia walked, William was dragged –into the building's lobby. He squinted at the sudden change in lighting. Ah, he knew that look. Well, the little of it that he could see through the blinding pain in his forehead.

"I'm fine –"

"Sure you are." Julia huffed, blowing a piece of hair off her forehead. She jammed her thumb against the elevator's call button. In the time it took his eyes to adjust, they'd already boarded a car heading for the twenty-ninth floor. Twenty-nine! It was unfathomable. So much so that it made his ears hurt.

Of course, that very well could have been his body's response to the rapid ascent. "To think people do this every day," he mumbled, gripping the elevator rails until he couldn't feel his fingers.

"And you're one of them now."

"Evidently."

Julia rubbed her thumb along his whitened knuckles. He'd forgotten how much he had missed this, the two of them, together.

"Please don't tell me you forgot your keys at the station."

He shook his head. "They're in my jacket." Off her raised eyebrow: "I, ah, would rather wait until we stop."

"Did you even look at this place before you signed the lease?"

"Not precisely, no."

"Men," she sighed, looking up at the lit-up numbers above the doors. "We're almost there. Brace yourself."

Sure enough, the elevator jerked to a stop. He flinched. "Thank you, Julia."

She was looking at him strangely again. Almost like she had in the interrogation room. Maybe a bit softer at the edges. He tried to muster a smile. She grinned back, as if by reflex, only to smother it with a shake of her head.

"Move, Murdoch," she nudged him with her shoulder, "Before the doors close. Unless you'd like another ride?" William could feel himself blanch. He all but ran into the hallway, Julia's laughter ringing behind him.

H. He lived in Apartment H. At least, that's what the note said. And his keys, too. Which reminded him –he fished them from his pocket. Sure enough the first one on the ring had a bold '29H' engraved on it. So if 'A' was left, that meant: "It should be the third door on the right."

"That you remember."

He shrugged, not wanting to explain that he'd made the deduction based on the building's exterior shape and common lettering trends that had been in use in 1899 and, apparently, had managed to hold up until 2012.

There, 29H. William eased the key into the lock as if he were in danger of snapping it in two –which, for all he knew, he very well could have been. But the key slid in without any resistance. A turn and a click –it was open.

"No deadbolt? That's a little trusting, don't you think?"

William made a non-committal sound at the back of his throat. His heart was beating too hard for him to manage anything more coherent. Anything could be behind this door. An explanation for why he was here. A way to get back home. The contents of another person's life, the one that he was now half-living. Whatever it was, he had to face it. Had to see it for his own eyes. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The apartment was empty.


	3. We're at the Common Again

Reviews are awesome. Thanks so, so much to everyone who left one and/or stopped by my tumblr. Here's part three!

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"Wow. Guess you weren't kidding about the move." Julia slipped between him and the doorjamb, slapping a switch on the wall as she went. A soft, yellow globe of light bloomed on the ceiling, peeling shadows back from the main room. William blinked. Rooms. A parlor of some sort and –was that meant to be a kitchen? He took a tentative step forward, allowing the door to ease itself closed behind him. The sound of the mechanism falling into place felt final, somehow. Had he been alone, he might've paused, might've taken more notice, but the echoing _click_ of Julia's heels drew him further inside.

William found her skimming her fingertips along the window –it was huge, stretching from floor to ceiling. It was without a doubt the largest single pane of glass he'd ever seen in a residence. And how it was his. The window and the vast, glittering city it encompassed. Things he never would have dreamed of asking for, just spread open before him. How could he refuse such gifts?

And then there was Julia. To call her a gift would be absurd: a betrayal of the worst sort. She was a woman, not a treasure to be won or awarded; she'd told him as much. And yet, as he followed the path of this other Julia's fingers, fingers that had touched her lips less than an hour before, he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming urge to grab her, to crush her against his chest so that he might finally bury his face in her hair and free all of his apologies, all of his regrets into the warm shell of her ear.

I'm sorry. Should never have let you go. Never. Forgive me, forgive me. Let me try again.

"Your kitchen's bigger than mine."

Startled, William cleared his throat. "Is it?"

"Mmm. Bet your bathroom is, too." She stepped away from the window, vanishing down a darkened hallway he hadn't noticed before. How big _was_ this place? Another light clicked on. "I knew it –and a rainfall shower!" He rushed to catch up. A private kitchen and bath, both with running water. Yet Julia made it sound as if their size was more impressive than the fact that he could afford such amenities on a detective's salary.

"Oh, my. Is that _marble?_"

Julia snorted. "It's nice, but it's not _that_ nice. Looks like granite."

William gaped at her. The room was easily half the size of the quarters he rented from Mrs. Kitchen. Smooth, off-white tiles covered the floor and the wall behind what must've been the rainfall shower. There was an impressive-looking bathtub, too, flanked by a toilet and a sink built into a counter that bled upwards into a mirror that seemed to be lit from behind.

"You shave with a straight razor?"

He was so preoccupied with attempting to discern the workings of the various taps and toggles that the significance of the question quite nearly slipped past him. Sure enough, there was a complete shaving kit set out beside the sink. William surged forward. Yes, these were his! The ding on the brush's base, the weight of the razor handle in his palm –he'd shaved with these this morning, he was certain of it.

"Woah, Sweeney. Settle down."

"Sweeney?" Their eyes met in the mirror. It might've been his imagination, but he swore he saw a blush before Julia shook her head.

"Nothing. I'm guessing you don't have any aspirin."

"Ah -" He cast around the room. There were strange cylindrical containers in the shower. He hadn't noticed that before. And on the sink, near where the razor had been: "Is that a toothbrush? So colorful…"

"Ohhkay. I'm going to get you a glass of water."

Upon closer inspection, the toothbrush appeared to be made of some kind of vulcanized rubber. But it was too hard for that. And the bristles definitely weren't from a boar. Or any other animal, for that matter.

"How bizarre," he mumbled. Not half as bizarre as the sudden appearance of his shaving kit. Which begged the question: if toiletries were materializing, what else could this apartment be harboring? He hastily returned the toothbrush to its holder.

The bedroom.

William burst through the final door. After a moment of blind groping, he managed to find the light switch. His vision burst into pinpricks, but he blinked them away. There had to be _something_ –

Or perhaps not.

There was a bed. No frame, just a mattress shoved into the far corner. Two pillows, white sheets, dark grey quilt. Another floor-to-celling window, this time with a rudimentary set of curtains hung across it. Functional, but far from stylish. Then again, for all he knew, it might've been the very height of modern décor. He scanned the remainder of the room for any traces of more personal possessions. The closet doors had been left open, offering him a glimpse of hangers and shelves full of twenty-first century clothing. There wasn't a hat in sight, though he did appear to have an alarming number of shoes.

In a single, dizzying moment, the full weight of the day settled across William's temples. He sank down on the edge of the bed, rested his elbows on his legs, and let his head fall into the cradle of his palms. Distantly he was aware of the sound of Julia's heels growing closer.

"Still bad?"

"I'm –"

"-fine, yeah, we covered that."

He could practically hear her eyes roll. A smile tugged at his lips. "I was going to say tired."

"Sure you were. Here," she pressed two pills into his hand, "You're lucky I carry extras. Drink this, too."

William tossed back the pills without question, then accepted the glass of water. It was cool and faintly sweet, rather like it had come from a mountain stream. "Thank you, Doctor." That made her laugh. He looked up, puzzled.

Ah. Right.

"Julia," he amended. "Thank you, Julia."

"Tit for tat." For a moment he thought she was going to touch his hair, but she took the empty glass instead. "You should get some rest."

"I'll walk you out." Her hand caught his shoulder as he went to stand.

"I can find the door, Murdoch."

"William," he said, covering her hand and giving it a squeeze, "Please." When she smiled, then, he could have sworn that they were back in the morgue, tripping through the infancy of their relationship all over again. It was, without exception, the best feeling he'd had since this had begun.

"William."

Never mind. Hearing her test his given name with that gentle, lilting tease –_this_ was better. This is what he would choose to remember of today. If he woke up tomorrow in the thirty-first century, on Mars, in an entirely different universe –whatever happened, he would still be able to hear her say his name.

When he stood, her hand trailed from his shoulder to his elbow before falling back to her side. Their fingers brushed as he took the glass from her hand, and for a split second he swore he saw her bite her lip. He wanted very much to kiss her.

He didn't, of course. For all intents and purposes, they were strangers. Much as he enjoyed being with Julia again, he didn't want to muddle this new relationship with old feelings. Not now. Not until he knew what was going on.

"I'll see you at the station tomorrow?"

"You will," she confirmed. They walked back to the entryway, pausing along the way to allow William to leave the glass in the kitchen sink. He shied away from the strange pieces of machinery for the time being, promising himself that he'd have a proper look at them, complete with a partial disassembly, when he wasn't nursing a minor concussion.

"Thank you again, Julia," he said as he opened the door for her, "I don't know where I would have been without you tonight."

"The hospital, probably," she joked. Her gaze turned serious. "Get some sleep, okay?" She propped her shoulder against the doorjamb. "Promise me."

"Yes. Good night, Julia."

"Night, Detective Murdoch." As she started down the hall he opened his mouth to protest, but before he could get the words out she twisted back to face him, curls framing her glittering eyes and the slight flush to her cheeks, "_Will_."

It was flirtatious. Brazen. Candy-coated with sin and sincerity. He must have looked –he didn't know how he must have looked. But she was laughing, and he took that to be a very good sign indeed.

He had a new favorite memory.


	4. Get in the Shower If It All Goes Wrong

William expected to watch the dawn overtake the city, his spectacular windows throwing shadows across wrinkled clothes and unshaven cheeks. The picture of a man lost, tossed asunder by fate, torn between duty and a dazzling fantasyland. He would be Odysseus on the beach of Ogygia, Aeneas in the arms of Dido.

It didn't work out quite as he had planned. Instead, he slept.

And not the sleep of the anguished or concussed, either. If he were being honest with himself, he'd admit that he'd gotten a better night's rest on this floor-borne configuration than he had during his whole time renting from Mrs. Kitchen. But he wasn't in the mood to be honest. Instead he lay on his back, staring up at the too white ceiling, stubbornly wishing for a washbasin.

But what was the point of a basin when there was a rainfall shower in the next room? He sighed, his frustrations echoing back against bare walls. It should not be this easy. Surely, having been thrown more than a century into the future, he ought to be struggling with the simplest of tasks. Instead, he'd found appropriate nightclothes, gotten into bed, and slept as an unfamiliar city roared around him.

Perhaps he was being too hasty. After all, he'd yet to attempt to prepare himself for the day. Julia –Julia and George were expecting him at the station house. Station. Yes. At any rate, the bathroom was sure to provide him with a myriad of challenges. Indoor plumbing could be a fickle thing. And he still had no idea what those cylindrical containers were for. William tossed back the covers. A futuristic wash sounded like just the thing to challenge him.

Or not. The toilet functioned like any other toilet, the shower like any other shower. Though, in the interest of giving credit where credit was due, the so-called 'rainfall' effect did live up to its name, and it was rather pleasing, as was the seemingly unlimited supply of hot water. But a challenge it was not. The containers he'd been so focused on turned out to be products meant for cleaning one's hair, complete with instructions for proper usage. He rinsed, repeated, and felt decidedly underwhelmed.

After a familiar shave courtesy of his nineteenth century razor, William, in a desperate bid to seek out uncertainty at the hands of futuristic gadgets, wrestled a lump of bright blue paste onto the equally colorful toothbrush and 'scrubbed in small, circular motions' for the designated two minutes. While this generated an alarming amount of foam, it failed to inspire any sort of true awe or confusion, much to his consternation.

By the time he returned to his closet, William was close to fuming. Too easy. It was all too easy. He unknotted his towel from around his hips and tossed it aside. Underclothes, trousers, shirt. Button the shirt, tuck it in, fumble with the toothed-metal fastening on the fly. No suspenders. Fine. Find yesterday's belt, wonder why there are six others in the closet. The same goes for the shoes, only more so. Are they meant to match? If so, what belt ought to go with the rubberized orange pair?

Better question: what was that pair even _for_?

"I'll undoubtedly have that figured out by lunch," he groused. He'd always known he was a smart man, but this –it was ridiculous. Without any real thought, he chose a tie, knotted it, and slipped on the jacket that had been hanging with the trousers. There. Bathed, shaved, and dressed. In –blast, he kept forgetting that he didn't have a pocket watch. Ah! Wristwatches. Apparently he had three of them. Of course. He chose the middle one, slipped it over his left hand, and fastened it.

Forty-five minutes. Well. That was a bit longer than he was accustomed to. He would have to be more mindful of the time he spent in the shower from here on out. The simulated rain had proven quite difficult to resist. To think: foaming toothpaste and warm water were the greatest challenges he'd encountered since getting out of bed.

That, and his hair. Tempting as it was, he'd refrained from slicking it back into its usual part. Instead he'd left it slightly aloft, held in place by a product from a tub that promised things like 'texture' and 'volume.' If he was going to follow instructions from the backs of bottles, he would follow them to the letter. Who was he to split up a three-piece grooming collection? Honestly, by the end of his shower he was just glad that the soap came in the customary bar form.

Speaking of the familiar, he'd done quite the job of replicating the style he'd turned up in yesterday. He still felt odd without a waistcoat, and the suit was a fraction tighter than he'd have liked, but the white-on-black pinstripes were an old standby that helped distract from the thin lapels and low collar. It was odd; he looked slimmer, wearing fewer, thinner layers of clothing, yet, at the same time, his shoulders seemed wider. Now that he thought of it, he'd noticed a similar effect with Julia the day before. Without her voluminous skirts and sleeves she was leaner, yet all the fiercer for it.

All in all, it was not an unpleasant sight to behold.

Without warning, a violent hammering cut through his memory of the exquisite contrast between the sharp angle of Julia's elbow and the curve of her waist.

"MURDOCH!"

George. Even here he had an uncanny ability to interrupt private sojourns.

"YOU DEAD OR SOMETHING? C'MON, GET UP!"

Wonderful. His neighbors were going to adore him. "I'm coming!" he called. The pounding stopped, giving way to what he guessed were muttered obscenities. Lovely.

William slipped his wallet and the leather-bound badge he'd found along with it into his jacket pocket. At first he'd assumed it was a second billfold or, better yet, a notebook, but a badge made more sense, even though he had no recollection of posing for the photograph or providing the signature on the accompanying identification card. Another mystery, best left logged next to the address, apartment, and shaving kit for the time being. Until he sorted everything out, he was simply grateful to take the badge at its face value: tangible proof of his employment.

While grabbing his keys off of the kitchen counter en route to the hallway, his gaze happened to land on the abandoned water glass from last night. Fastidious as he was, William didn't want to wash it and return it to its proper place, wherever that might be. He was being sentimental, yes, but the combined fingermarks were the only evidence of the moments they'd shared in the spartan apartment.

It was fortunate that he had become used to missing her. Otherwise he might not have found the fortitude to pull himself back down the entryway. He threw the deadbolt and opened the door.


	5. Yeah He's Got His Charm

"Crabtree." Now _that_ was not something he could see himself becoming accustomed to any time soon. George was wearing nearly the same set of clothing, except there were more holes in the legs of his trousers and his shirt was a dark grey. He looked William up and down.

"Still tryin' for that GQ cover, I see."

"GQ?"

"The magazine," George gestured to the suit, "You know, with the clothes and crap."

William self-consciously smoothed his tie. "As an officer of the law –"

"Yeah, yeah. Save it, okay?"

"But-"

"Listen, Jules is making me get you breakfast cause of the whole," he mimed throwing a punch. William fought back the urge to hurl himself towards the fist. "And since it's generally a good idea not to piss her off, we're gonna grab some eggs, then I'll drive us to the station. Deal?"

"Fine. Have you a particular establishment in mind?"

"'Have I a particular' –Jesus, lock your damn door and get in the elevator already."

"No need to be crass," William muttered, but he did as he was told. A warm meal sounded wonderful. He hadn't eaten since, well, it must've been the donuts during the stakeout. Eighteen hours, give or take. His stomach would've growled had it not been plummeting ten floors beneath the descending elevator car. Thankfully George was too busy repeatedly pressing the 'lobby' button to notice William's sudden loss of color.

Aside from a grunted "Down here," George didn't speak during the three block walk to the restaurant. It was a curious place; something called a diner that, supposedly, specialized in 'home-style cooking' despite the fact that its interior was a detailed homage to Greek art and architecture. Rather fitting considering his recent preoccupation with certain epic poems.

"Do they serve Greek dishes here?" William asked as they settled into their booth.

"Trust me, you wanna stick with the eggs." George picked up a smooth, shiny piece of…something and flipped it back and forth. "Pancakes are all right, too, I guess."

Ah, so it was a menu! Feeling quite pleased with himself, William followed George's example. How strange. The menu appeared to be a typewritten paper trapped between two pieces of clear, solid material. This was far more interesting than any of the things in his apartment. He scanned the range of dishes available, marveling at the sheer number and, perhaps most of all, at the exorbitant prices.

"Fifteen dollars for three eggs!"

William was very much aware of the process of inflation, but _fifteen dollars_!

"You get hash and toast with it."

Ah, yes, that made it better. He forced his jaw shut. To be fair, he had expected something of this nature, given that his wallet contained more than three months of wages. Still. Fifteen dollars. And they wanted two more for a cup of tea! Well, then, it looked as if he'd be choking down the station's coffee. It was vile, yes, but at least it was free.

Their waitress, a young woman who looked to be a part of the family that ran the place, appeared beside the table. "You guys set?"

"Yeah," George handed his menu over. "Gimme the ham and cheese omelette."

"Toast?"

"White. And a coffee. Thanks."

So he _was_ capable of polite interactions. Though it was possible they might be limited to conversations with attractive members of the opposite sex. Potential suspects aside, that is.

"And you?"

"Ah, three scrambled eggs, please. With white toast." When William handed back his menu, he and the waitress happened to lock eyes. A half-smile tilted at her lips. Oh. Oh, dear.

"How'd you like that toast? _Wet_?"

A blush flamed its way up William's neck and ears. George snickered from across the table.

"Dry." Forget the price, he had to divert her focus. "And a cup of tea."

"Iced, or _hot_?"

"Room temperature." What a preposterous thing to say. And to make it worse, a slight wobble had worked its way into his voice. Fantastic. At least it hadn't cracked.

"Comin' right up." And there it was –the wink. Well, he could never eat here again.

"Aw, man," George chuckled, "You are one GQ motherfu-"

"George!"

"Keep clutching your pearls like that and I might start thinkin' you _are_ my Grandma."

"There are children here," William hissed.

"Halfway across the room!" George slouched back against his seat. "'Sides, it's a compliment. Must be nice, scoring like that."

"I don't want to 'score' over breakfast!"

"Nah, you'd rather seal the deal back at your big ol' empty apartment after the pretty Narc checks you for concussions and 'muscle strain'."

"I –_never_ –last night –Julia is a colleague. I respect her too much to have ever –I would _not_ –" William's ears felt white-hot and his temper was quick to match them. "She is so much more than that," he said, "Pretty -I can't believe -she is smart, she is brave, and she is kind, Crabtree. Do I need to remind you that when you were off playing with your gun, she was the one who went out of her way to ensure that I made it home safely? And yesterday: she was willing to throw down her career and her _life_ to help you follow a hunch because it was the right thing to do, for the case and for you, her friend. This is how you repay her? By making lewd insinuations?"

"Nope. This is how I make sure my new partner's not a perv."

William blinked. His neck was still warm, his breathing still ragged. It took a moment longer than he would've liked for it to click.

"You mean –"

The waitress set down their matching mugs with a clatter, cutting him off.

"Yeeeap. Few years ago, they send me this guy, right? He's okay. Likes tagging along when I go see Jules undercover. Doesn't do interviews, doesn't do anything on his own, really, but he's green, so whatever. We wrap our case –busted up a punk drug ring –paperwork's still warm from the copier, and he says the three of us ought to go celebrate. Hit the bar. I'm in, Jules says she can't make it 'cause she's gotta be in court early the next morning. No big, right? But he gets _pisssed_. Calls her all kinds of shit –'tease,' says she gets off playing the 'dirty whore,'" George shook his head. "It got ugly, man."

"What did you do?"

"Me?" He grinned, "Laughed my ass off when she broke his jaw, that's what I did."

William dropped back in his seat. It was a relief, having confirmation that Julia was every bit as capable as he'd assumed she'd be. He fought back a misplaced sense of pride; she was her own woman. He had no right to act as if her accomplishments were somehow connected to him. But he was, as he had always been in matters concerning her, overcome with the thrill of knowing that she'd become part of his life.

"Well," he said at last, "I'm happy to have passed your test. And I'm even happier to know that you hold Julia in such high regard."

"'Course I do. She's great. Best Narc a guy could ask for. And all that stuff you said, too."

Their food arrived, reawakening William's appetite. The restaurant seemed a little brighter, a little more alive now that he'd had a proper conversation with George. Perhaps this could work. Being equal partners was a far cry from supervising a young constable, but with a little effort, they just might make something of it.

"'cept," George said through a mouthful of omelette, "maybe I wouldn't say it with big 'ol puppy eyes."

"I did no such thing!"

"Sure man. Keep tellin' yourself that."

A lot of effort, William amended as he stabbed at his eggs. It would take a lot of effort.


	6. Cause I Remember That I like You

True to his word –or, perhaps more aptly, to Julia's threat –George paid for breakfast. William didn't bother putting in much of a protest; he wasn't keen on having any additional interactions with the waitress. It was bad enough ducking his head and shoveling eggs into his mouth each time she came by to refill George's coffee. After the fifth such trip, the saucer had begun to flood. His otherwise short-tempered partner just grinned and waggled his eyebrows, leaving William to take a savage bite out of his brittle toast, cutting the roof of his mouth in the process.

So far the twenty-first century was making Mrs. Kitchen seem like a passable chef.

William was still nursing his sore palate when he climbed into the car. George flashed a slip of paper as he slid behind the wheel. "Put her number on the check."

"Oh for the love of –"

"S'alright, I'll hang on to it for ya." The paper went into his pocket. He threw the car into gear, revved the engine, and peeled out of the parking space. "One of the perks of having a 'stud muffin' partner."

"A _what_?"

"Her words, not mine. Wanna see?"

"No," William hissed, teeth clenched in a combination of annoyance and nausea.

"Suit yourself," George shrugged. The car sped through one intersection, then another. William kept his eyes focused on his knees, summoning up deep breaths. George glanced over at him. "Really bothers you, huh?"

"I do find your blatant disregard for traffic laws somewhat disquieting, yes."

"Not talking about that." They slid into a sharp turn, punctuating the statement a little more violently than William would've liked. He shut his eyes. Deep breath. They had to be getting close to the station. "Guy like you oughta be used to getting hit on."

"I don't know what that means."

"Come on. Like that's the first time a woman's ever asked you out." Oh. Hit on. William wasn't sure if he was comfortable with the violence that term implied, especially if it could be applied to women, too. "Even Jules said you were," he propped his wrists on the steering wheel so he could make exaggerated air quotes "'cute'."

"She's different." Judging by George's smirk, he might've said that a little too quickly. "The situation was different. She was undercover."

But she'd flirted later. Tossed her hair before the interrogation, called him cute again afterwards, invited him to a play –the play! He'd completely forgotten about it. Did the offer still stand? Would it be too forward to ask?

Well, a woman he'd spoken fewer than ten words to had just given him her phone number. Perhaps it would be wise to reevaluate his definition of 'forward.'

And, besides, if this –coming to the twenty-first century, working with a different George and Julia, living in a strange city –if it meant anything, if it had any purpose at all, surely it was intended to give him a second chance. Maybe not entirely: there might be more to it than that, but he wasn't about to go so far as to imagine that he was intended for some higher purpose. He did know this for certain: he had regrets. He had made mistakes. If he had taken more initiative, shoved his propriety aside and welcomed all that was _forward_, he might not have lost Julia in 1899.

He could not –no, would not. He would not let the same happen in 2012.

George brought the car to a screaming stop. William scrabbled for purchase against the floor and dashboard.

"Just checkin' to see if you were still awake."

"You could have asked."

"Nah, my way's more fun," George grinned, "C'mon, let's see if we caught a case." In an instant, he was out of the car, already bounding towards the station.

"Equal partnership," William muttered to himself as he followed on rubbery legs. "First step: learn how to drive."

The lobby wasn't half as crowded as it had been the night before, but it was still enough to send tendrils of claustrophobia up William's spine. Luckily, George, being his usual, ah, _boisterous_ self, was able to clear a path for them. It seemed that the majority of the other officers didn't want anything to do with him or the string of obscenities he left in his wake. No matter. They were partners now. He accepted George with all of his faults. His many, many faults.

Which reminded him: whom, exactly, did one ask about learning to operate a modern automobile?

"Hey, fellas. How was breakfast?"

Julia. In all of the hustle of the previous day, he'd forgotten that their desks were grouped together in the corner farthest from the Inspector's office. She'd stopped working when he and George had walked in, looked up from the strange, lighted frame in front of her, and –this might have been an exaggeration of his imagination –let her eyes linger ever so briefly on him. She stood, shook out her hair, crossed to the front of her desk, and sat back down on its edge. It was so familiar, but so, so different.

The Julia of 1899 didn't wear men's suit jackets over thin, grey shirts with low, scooping necklines. She didn't wear necklaces whose heavy pendants hung between her breasts, and she certainly didn't wear rough, black trousers that were so tight he could see every curve of her legs from hip to ankle. Even her shoes, boots cut at the ankle with a wicked, spiked heel, were scandalous.

William needed to stop staring. He needed to do a lot of things. Put his hands in his pockets, go to confession, kiss her until the sheen wore off her lips, go back to confession –

"Murdoch got picked up by the waitress."

"I did not!" he sputtered.

"Did too," George dropped into his chair, patted the pocket of his jacket, "Got proof right here. Wanna see, Jules?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

"No!" William pushed himself between them. Laughing, Julia tried ducking around him, but he caught her, one hand on her wrist, the other on her waist. Good Lord. She wasn't wearing a corset. He could feel the top of her hipbone push against his palm as she twisted to change her angle of attack.

The sensible part of his brain told him to drop his grip immediately and seek council from the nearest member of the clergy. It was a good thing he'd vowed to be less sensible.

"Aw, c'mon, stud muffin. Let the lady read all about your dreamy, chocolate-chip eyes."

That did it. Julia collapsed into a gale of laughter, which was quick to set George off, leaving William to groan and bury his head in the crook of her shaking shoulder. He was dimly aware of how inappropriate it was, not just to be holding her like this, but also to be at the center of such a ruckus in the station. It was a terrible example for the other constables.

But no one cared. No one stopped him. If anything, George was egging him on. And Julia; she wasn't trying to break away. No, she was rubbing his back, pressing him closer as she fought to catch her breath.

"Well," she managed through her giggling, "you do have very pretty eyes. So warm and _melty_."

George gave a great snort of laughter, triggering another wave from Julia. William felt his resolve give way under both the physical warmth of the loose embrace and the spark of camaraderie that'd been struck between the three of them. He let go. A resigned chuckle turned into a genuine guffaw. It was absurd. It was madness.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so free.

"Crabtree, the Inspector wants you. New case."

"Aaargh, man. Anybody ever tell you you're a killjoy, Myers?" But George was already on his way, slapping William on the back as he went by. Julia ruffled the hair at the nape of his neck. He stifled a shiver. Best straighten back up.

"Glad to see you boys getting along."

"For the time being." He convinced his hands to leave her waist and the smooth skin of her wrist, pushing them into his pockets in an attempt to feign casualness. Her fingers slid from his hair to his lapel, where they stayed, worrying at the fabric. "Julia?"

"Hmm?"

"The play, ah –"

"_West Side Story_," she supplied.

"Yes. The musical."

"That's the one."

He could hear the familiar, teasing lilt in her voice. She knew what he was going to ask, but instead of helping him, she was going to make him say it outright. Why was this more difficult than pressing his face to her bare collarbone? He cleared his throat. "I don't believe I gave a response to your invitation yesterday."

"No, you didn't."

"It was quite rude of me."

That earned him a smile. "I think you get a pass. It was a hell of a day."

"Yes." He hesitated. "Could I –that is, would you –do you still want me to go? With you?"

"With me? Not Crabtree?"

It was his turn to smile. "With you."

"One condition." Her hand migrated from lapel to tie. She made a show of straightening it, smoothing it down, before laying her hand flat on his chest. "No suit."

He furrowed his brow. "But it's the theater. What else would I wear?"

She shook her head, half-laughing. "So old fashioned."

"Guys!" George called across the bullpen. "We've got a homicide." Julia's head whipped around.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," George was at his desk in an instant, stuffing a pen and notebook into his pockets and hanging his badge around his neck. Julia quickly followed suit, grabbing her purse from her desk. "Get a move on, Murdoch. This is a special case."

"I don't understand."

"We never get murders," Julia explained, clipping her shield to her belt. "They usually go to the higher-ups."

"Then why now?"

"Three reasons," George ticked off his fingers, "You, you, and you."


	7. I Don't Seem to Be Having Any Effect Now

William had been right: George did like the lights. They weren't his favorites, though. Oh, no. Last night, when he'd made his deductions in the motor pool, William had no way of knowing that each car came equipped with a siren –a sharp, electronic _thing_ whose hellish wail either rose and fell in an infinite loop or pulsed high-low-high-low every time a switch was toggled.

George loved that switch.

"Jesus, Crabtree," Julia leaned forward, reaching for the center console. "Lay off."

"Dickheads won't get out of the way. HEY! THE LIGHTS MEAN 'MOVE YOUR ASS'" More pulsating. His head ached. "There, Worseley, get the Honda on the left. Go up on the curb –"

"Perhaps it would be best to let Worseley drive," William shouted over the sirens. Beside him, Julia was still fighting for a position between the font seats. How she could move around the car as they hurtled crosstown was beyond him. He was quite content to stay pressed against the door, fists clenched into the upholstery.

"So help me, touch that thing one more time and I'm going to break your fucking wrist."

Shock flooded some of the adrenaline out of his system, just enough for him to manage a hoarse exclamation: "Julia!"

"What?" she snapped. The faint residue of flashing blue-red light caught her eyes, cut peculiar shadows across her face. She had broken a man's jaw once. Perhaps more than that. She'd shot a gun, too. Carried one on her belt. Had she ever used it in the line of duty? Wounded someone? Killed them?

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"Chippy doesn't like cursing, Jules." George smirked, but he let his hand drop from the siren's controls all the same. William squeezed his eyes shut.

"I told you not to call me that."

"Not so fun on that end, eh?"

"Um, detectives?" Worseley broke in, "I think you'll have to walk from here."

The tentative edge in the constable's voice won out over William's annoyance. He opened his eyes.

"Oh my," he rasped. There were cars everywhere. Some were police vehicles, others, these huge, hulking beasts with ladders fixed atop them, belonged to the fire department, and still more had 'ambulance' blazing across their sides. Lights flashed from every direction, splashing color and shadow in equal measure. "How –how many bodies are there?"

"Just the one," George slid out of the car, "I'm gonna go get the full brief."

The hollow _thump_ of the door closing sent an echoing palpitation through William's chest. "All this for one body." His eyes leapt from car to car. There were at least ten constables clustered around a line of yellow tape that cut the mouth of an alleyway off from the rest of the street. Men and women –at least, he thought some of them were women –dressed white, hooded full-body suits moved back and forth between the alley and a bulky police vehicle. Some of them deposited boxes, others grabbed items he couldn't identify before heading back towards the tape.

"I need to check in with the witnesses."

Julia left. This time, when the door slammed, William's hands spasmed into fists. He forced a deep breath, then another. This was his job. He was a detective. He caught killers. He saw their work on a daily basis, either in the morgue or at one scene or another. He'd long since lost count of the number of times he'd been summoned to see someone pooled in their own blood, or hanging from a rafter, or face-down in a river. He had made the sign of the cross over each one, prayed for their salvation, asked for strength. There was no reason that today should be any different. To let a death go unpunished because of his own fears, his own terrible apprehension that coated his throat like bile, would be the worst crime of all.

"Not in Kansas anymore, eh, sir?"

William met Worseley's eyes in the rearview mirror. "I don't know what that means," he said, then as he finally got out of the car, stepped into the morning sun and flickering blue-red-blue-white-white, added softly, to himself, "I don't know what any of this means."

The yellow tape. That's where he was meant to go. He could feel his badge riding heavy on he left side of his belt. Constables would look his way, catch sight of the shield, and clear a path, all without a word. Where he'd expected a heavy sort of silence, he instead found a never-ending clatter. Boxes on the constables' shoulders squawked, chattering out combinations of letters and numbers he couldn't understand. The white-suited officers murmured back and forth about evidence, something called a chain of custody.

William walked through it all in a daze. If he could just get to the body, then maybe, maybe he would remember what to do next. A constable raised the tape for him. Ducking his head, he stepped through. When he looked up again, it was as if all the chaos behind him had vanished.

Alley. Closed on one end. Opening to the south, judging by the sun. Dumpsters –large and metal, but still dumpsters –along the north and east walls. Fire escape on the side of the west building. Residential, most likely. Hard to tell what kind of neighborhood this was. It looked –it looked strange. He couldn't see past the hundred years he'd missed. George would know. Ask later. Pavement, no footprints. No markings of any sort. Maybe under ultra-violet…

And then there was the body. Covered by a bright blue tarp, guarded by a single figure in one of those white suits. Before he'd made a conscious decision to move, William found himself kneeling beside them. In the name of the Father, the son, and the Holy Spirit.

Give me strength, Lord.

"Detective Murdoch? I'm Doctor Padilla, the ME."

It was a woman's voice that came from behind the paper mask. A few strands of dark hair were pushing at the edge of the white hood. Her eyes, light brown and flecked with a professional impatience, were the only part of her face he could see completely.

"A pleasure to meet you, Doctor." He moved to shake hands, stopping when he realized that she was wearing gloves. His brow furrowed. They didn't seem as if they were made from cloth. "Are those rubber?"

"Latex." She quirked an eyebrow, "Allergic?"

"Ah, no. No, I don't think so."

"Great, put these on." Padilla shoved a matching pair into his hands. But why would he –oh! Oh, how ingenious! Wearing gloves would prevent the transfer of his finger marks to the body. No more contaminating evidence. Why, this would save them hours of work.

If he could get them on, that is.

As he struggled, Doctor Padilla watched with a combination of frustration and horror. Finally, she sighed outright. "You know, I thought they were joking. I really did. Ninety-eight percent close rate, they said, but he doesn't have a clue about crime-scene procedure."

"Things are different here," William bit out. Blasted glove –there! "May I see the body now, Doctor?"

After a pointed look at his hands, she pulled back the tarp. "Don't lean over. Keep an arm's distance at all times."

Fine. If that was what was required of him. William looked down. Female. Young. Blonde. Blue eyes, fixed and glassy. No sign of bruising on the face, but her neck was a riot of blue, purple, and red. She was wearing –well, she wasn't wearing terribly much.

"A prostitute?"

"We think so," Padilla confirmed, "Bit outside of their usual radius, but the time of death fits: between two and four AM."

He thought of Julia, speaking with the witnesses. It was possible that she knew this girl from her undercover work. That could prove to be most valuable. "Cause of death would be strangulation?"

"Most likely. There's a contusion on the back of her head, possible fractured skull. What did I say about leaning forward?"

William rocked back on his heels. "My apologies."

"As I was saying, I won't be able to give a CoD until I finish the preliminary autopsy. We're also doing a full tox screen; no telling what she might've been on when she died. Might explain why we aren't seeing defensive wounds. Could be that she OD'ed, or was forced to OD, and then someone finished her off."

"Any information on the type of ligature used?"

Padilla tipped the dead woman's chin back. "See that?" she pointed to a smattering of black flecks concentrated at the center of the bruising. "We think it might be reptilian. Snake, crocodile, alligator –"

"A belt?" William squinted, turned his head.

"Or the strap of a purse."

"And our victim's is missing." He could see it now: the perpetrator grabbing the girl's bag, ripping off the thin, cord-like handle, wrapping it around her neck. Too weak or confused to struggle, she'd fallen. Take the bag, and it looked like a simple robbery. He stood up. "Thank you, Doctor."

"Don't take those gloves off until you're past the tape."

"Ah, yes. Of course." So many rules to remember. And yet, it seemed as if his actual duties had been cut down to nothing. He didn't need to order anyone to collect evidence; there was a whole team of people dedicated to doing just that. Julia was interviewing potential witnesses, George was off with the constables who'd found the body. He couldn't help but feel that he ought to be doing _more_. In spite of that, though, he didn't dare interfere with Doctor Padilla and her team. If he'd learned anything in all his years with the constabulary, it was that there was no wrath like that of a coroner scorned.

William ducked back under the tape and immediately peeled the gloves off. As soon as he freed his hands, it seemed, a white-clad officer was there, thrusting a transparent bag at his chest. "Oh, for the –I see." William dropped the discarded gloves inside. And he thought he'd been obsessive about preserving evidence. Once again, 1899 didn't have anything on 2012.

"Hey." Speaking of the future's many positive qualities; William would have to stop staring at Julia. But the way she put her hands in her back pockets, and that pendant, just dangling – "I got an ID on the vic."

His eyebrows flew up. "You did?"

"Goes by Velvet on the streets. Real name's Shannon Martin, twenty-three. Uniforms rounded up a couple of girls who were working the next corner over last night. They were pretty happy to see me. Anyway, I've got tech working on tracking her last known address.

William nodded absently. He had no idea what a 'tech' was, but the meaning was clear enough; one less thing for him to do. Was everything delegated in this century? Just how large was the police force now? It must've been massive.

"So. What do we do now?"

"Well," Julia exhaled, "we wait for George to finish up. Then we go back to the station and wait some more."

"That's it?"

"Pretty much. In case you didn't realize, we're not exactly Toronto's top squad. It'll take at least a day for the basic autopsy report, then a few more after that for the DNA and tox screens to come through." She must've picked up on William's confusion and the surge of frustration that came with it, because next thing he knew, she'd moved closer, bumping her shoulder into his. "Hey, look at it this way; gives us a chance to go home early, change, grab dinner before the show."

"Tonight? That's tonight?"

Julia nodded, grinning. "Unless you'd rather sit on the floor and decide what color to paint your walls. I suppose I could let you off the hook for that."

"It is tempting…" The shove to his shoulder was much stronger this time. He found himself grinning in return.

"Pick you up at six, Chippy."


	8. I Remember When I Found You

Perhaps he had underestimated the challenges his new wardrobe would present. He had not, in fact, managed to discern the purpose of the bright orange shoes by lunch. He hadn't even eaten lunch. Between filling out paperwork –reams upon reams of it sent over from Dr. Padilla's office –and attempting to help George secure permission to acquire something called a 'murder board,' morning melted into afternoon, afternoon into evening. Before he knew it, four-thirty had rolled around; Julia had left for the day, and George, impatient as ever, was leaning over his desk, threatening to leave him at the station overnight if he didn't 'get the expletive out' before he made the rest of them look bad.

Except he hadn't said 'bad'. Or expletive, obviously.

After yet another harrowing car and elevator ride, William was thrilled to be back at his apartment. Or, at least, he was, right up until he remembered that he had a rather important evening to prepare for. And, to make the situation even more frustrating, he had Julia's ultimatum to deal with: no suit.

William rubbed at his forehead. Staring into the closet was beginning to give him a headache. He turned away, paced the length of the room. He was out of delaying tactics, having already taken a shower, shaved, and brushed his teeth. Maybe he could brush them again. No –clothing. He couldn't spend the whole evening in his pajamas, fretting over what to wear. For God's sake, he was a grown man.

A grown man with far, far too many clothes.

"Right." He grit his teeth, steeled his resolve. "Right. Dress like George. No, not George. Worseley?" A grimace. "Perhaps not."

Best take it one step at a time. Trousers. He'd ruled out the ones from the suits, and the beige pairs that didn't seem appropriate for the season. Which left him with the stack of rough, riveted ones with visible pockets. Blue jeans. At least, he was assuming that's what they were, because in addition to not being entirely blue, several of them didn't even bear a Levi Strauss logo.

Well. He might have avoided wearing them in the Klondike, but it didn't seem as if he'd be quite so lucky tonight. Fine. William discarded his pajamas and tugged on the darkest blue pair. They fit like his suit trousers, perhaps a bit tighter. At least there weren't any holes in them.

"Now a shirt…"

White was tempting. Too much like a suit. Blue, with the blue jeans? No. Black? That seemed daring. But he wanted to be daring. He yanked his pajama top over his head. A compromise, then. Amongst the patterned shirts he found one made of a narrow black and white gingham. He hesitated before pulling it from its hanger. Should he put on an undershirt? It might look odd, considering he would be leaving the neck open. Something told him Julia's ban on suits also included ties.

But what about jackets? There was a slate-grey one with a black collar and lapels that didn't seem to have any trousers paired with it. He considered it as he finished tucking in the shirt and buckling his belt. It was cold out. Best be practical.

William shrugged the jacket on and risked a look at the mirror. It could have been worse, he supposed. His hair looked all right, shoes were shined. Odds were he wouldn't be thrown out of the theater. Now all that was left to do was –

A knock soared through the empty apartment.

-wait.

He truly had to get better at managing his time.

On the bright side, he thought as he went to answer the door, at least he wouldn't spend another half hour agonizing in front of the closet. Unless Julia told him to change. No, he really did not want to entertain that possibility. He looked fine. Everything was fine. Fine. Deep breath. Open the door now. And –

"So you _do_ own jeans!"

William might've said something, might've laughed, might've made a wheezing, choking noise in the back of his throat. He wasn't quite sure what he did, exactly, because he could see through Julia's shirt. Just straight through it. She might as well've not been wearing one. Beneath the sheer –had he mentioned it was sheer? –white top a black chemise clung to her breasts, it's deep v scalloped with the barest hint of lace. She was wearing a black leather jacket, which helped somewhat, until he noticed how the light reflected between its metal fastenings and the gold feather pendant hanging from her neck.

Those pendants were going to be the death of him.

Of course, it was entirely possible that she might kill him first. Why else would she reach forward to thumb the second button on his shirt loose? He wanted to grab her hands, stop them from smoothing across his chest. There was glitter on her eyelids again, and something dark smudged near her lashes. Her hair smelled incredible. He couldn't move.

"There," she pulled back, satisfied with the adjustments she'd made. "Ready for dinner?"

Say yes. Tell her about skipping lunch. Complain about paperwork or George's driving. Ask what restaurant they'd be going to. Compliment her. No, don't. Be respectful. What would he say if this were the Julia of 1899? Terrible idea. That wasn't fair, not in the slightest. This was meant to be a new beginning. Old feelings –old feelings were impossible to ignore, no matter how much he would've liked to trick himself into thinking otherwise.

Past mistakes, though: those he could fix. That's what second chances were for, weren't they? There were things he should've said in his old life. So many times he'd bitten his tongue, hiding his feelings behind a false front of etiquette and propriety. It wasn't fair, not to him, and most certainly not to her.

"You look lovely."

He'd expected the sly quirk of her lips, but not the flash of surprise that came just before it. "Thanks." She tossed her hair back, spent a little too long tracing the line of his jaw with her eyes, "There's this great Turkish place a couple blocks from the theater. I figured we'd catch a cab over."

"Excellent." At this point, William would have agreed to go Alberta for a bowl of porridge. He clapped his hands, wrung them as if to squeeze out the awkwardness buzzing in his fingertips. "Shall we?"

"I'll grab the elevator." She was wearing the same trousers as she'd been earlier, along with a different, though equally wicked-looking, pair of heels. He fumbled his keys, a blush heating the back of his open collar.

By the time they were seated at a small, intimate table towards the rear of the dimly lit restaurant, William's neck had gone from red to green and back again. The cab driver's recklessness provided a blessed reprieve from fixating on Julia's perfume, remembering how smooth her skin had been when he'd pressed his face to her collarbone, but now that they were here, sitting across from one another in the candlelight, all he could think of was her hipbone pushing into his palm. She hadn't been wearing a corset then, and she couldn't be wearing one now.

He stared at the menu without registering a single item on it. But he didn't dare look up, not when he still felt as if a glance from her glittering eyes could be his undoing. Under the silent scrutiny of their waiter, he cleared his throat. "Do you, ah, have any recommendations?"

"The kebabs, definitely. I tend to go for the chicken. Not big on lamb."

"Excellent. I'll have that." How many times had he said 'excellent'? Did it sound as bad as he thought it did? One look at the waiter confirmed the worst. Tamping down on a scowl, William handed his menu over.

"Let's make it two, then. Drinks?"

"Oh, I don't –but I wouldn't mind if you –"

"Nah, I'm set." Julia returned her menu with a smile, "Thanks." The waiter made a great show of bowing. This time William wasn't quite so successful at masking his annoyance. "So," she began, propping her forearms up on the table and giving him a rather spectacular view of her sleek, clingy top, killing his irritation where it stood, "You like plays, huh?"

"Oh, ah, yes. Though, not as much as –" Who, jailed gambling king Brackenreid? "-the last Inspector I worked with." Well, that could have been worse. It was a bit unnerving, really, finding himself not only able to lie and misdirect, but eager to do so in the hopes of preserving the fragile ground he'd managed to gather up this past day and a half. "You must enjoy the theater."

Julia toyed with her water glass. "Actually, my sister Ruby got me the tickets. She couldn't make it in at the last second; her editor wanted her in Cairo. You know, I swear she did it on purpose. She's always trying to get me set up with somebody, and she knew I wouldn't go alone and waste a ticket." She sighed. "Little sisters."

William felt a renewed surge of hope. Ruby! It was as if she were back in his corner again, though they'd yet to meet in this world. Things had felt the same between him and Julia from the beginning; there was no doubting or denying that. Still, in spite of the echoing emotions and all the time that they would be spending together at work, he couldn't help but harbor a blackened bit of doubt that they wouldn't be able to connect in the same way, wouldn't understand each other as they had in 1899.

But with one mention of brash, stubborn Ruby, all his fears seemed to turn to ash. He could do this. He could make this work.

William leaned forward, mirroring Julia's posture. "Well, then," he teased, "if that's the case, please remind me to send Ruby a thank-you note."


	9. It's Just You and I Tonight

"Oh my God," Julia scoffed, "did the Jesuits teach you that line? Please tell me they did. You've _got_ to have better game than that."

"I –I don't –" William stammered, "'Game'? Wh-"

"And you called me 'lovely' earlier." She was playing with her necklace now. As if thinking hadn't been difficult enough to begin with, "I think you could step that up, too."

"What's wrong with 'lovely'?" His confusion was drifting towards annoyance and, to his chagrin, flat-out petulance.

"It's for scenery and small animals."

"Well, what would you have me say?"

"Oh, no. No hints. Not for the brilliant Detective Murdoch."

William scowled, but all that got him was a snicker. He sighed. "I don't suppose beautiful is quite what you're looking for, either."

"Getting there."

"I seem to recall being referred to as 'cute.'"

"Your point being?"

"Isn't that a term that best lends itself to small animals?"

"So you're going with 'hypocrite,' then?"

"I never said that."

"You haven't said anything else yet, either."

They'd both leaned forward on their elbows, drawn together by the same inexplicable magnetism that William had felt countless times before in morgues and offices and parks. If it weren't for the table between them, he would have kissed her, would have let that stand in lieu of a proper response. Instead, he met her jewel-bright gaze straight on.

"Julia."

"Hmm?"

"You look ravishing." He hadn't meant to say it. Honestly. But watching her pupils dilate made the impropriety, the downright impudence of it all worth it.

"Much better. And Will?"

"Yes?"

"Food's here."

The chicken, spiced and served in chunks on a bed of brown rice and grilled peppers, was the best meal William had eaten in the twenty-first century. The lingering awkwardness that followed him to the restaurant was gone –well, perhaps not gone. Greatly diminished. His earlier declaration had done away with most of it, leaving him free to enjoy the food and company, almost as if this were any other outing.

And, like any other outing, they spoke more about their current case than themselves. Of course, rather than talk about autopsies Julia herself had performed, they marveled at the amount of paperwork Dr. Padilla expected of them. That is to say, William marveled. Julia complained, but not half as much as George had. He was able to pick up a few useful details about how the station was run; always refill the coffee pot, never make popcorn during normal work hours.

Strange, yes, but it wasn't as if he was in any position to turn down advice, even if it wasn't related to upholding the law.

William even won what Julia referred to as 'the battle of the bill.' As he was quick to point out, she was contributing the tickets, so the least he could do was cover the cost of dinner. She'd groused about his logic before relenting, which made him smile stupidly as he dealt the correct number of bills out of his wallet.

Afterwards, as they walked to the theater, he found himself overcome by the ordinary wonders of streetlights on pavement, couples walking with their arms around one another, buildings screaming towards the sky. Toronto was incredible. If they didn't have a curtain to make, he would have been content to stand on the corner and feel the world whirl beneath his feet.

But the theater –oh, the theater. It was _fantastic_. An orchestra, plus two upper decks. Massive, with lights everywhere and great, soaring pillars opening up into archways. All of the seats were covered in red velvet. The floor, both in the aisles and between the rows, had an equally plush carpeting. He would have felt underdressed were it not for the countless other men wearing baggy trousers that cut off at the knee.

"Is this going to be okay for you?" Julia asked once they'd taken their seats. Eight rows back from the stage, just left of center. William, still gaping at the architecture, couldn't believe she'd question such a thing.

"These are marvelous, Julia. Ruby must have quite the connections."

"Yeah," she snorted, "you could say that. But, seriously, it's not too crowded?"

"No, why?" he craned his neck at the upper balconies, "How many people does the theater seat?"

"Just over seventeen-hundred."

"_Seventeen-hundred_?" An entire town could fit in this one room! But it felt so open, so airy. How did they do that? He couldn't see a single window. A system of fans, maybe? An intriguing thought. Before he could finish sketching the potential blueprints in his mind, the lights began to dim in perfect synchrony. "The circuitry!" he blurted, "On this scale, why, there must be _millions _–how do they –the amount of control it must take -!"

Beside him, Julia giggled into her playbill. "I can't wait till you see the gobos."

"The _what_?"

"Lights that project patterns onto the stage." She looked over, saw his baffled expression, and gave his arm a consoling pat. "You'll love it."

"I-"

"Shh," she cut him off by squeezing his wrist. "Show's starting." William swallowed hard. It was a play. _Romeo and Juliet_. He'd seen countless productions of it. How different could this one possibly be?

Five minutes later, when the first musical number began, he had his answer. An hour after that, when the curtain came down on the bodies left behind at the rumble, William found himself wishing there wasn't an intermission, that the show could keep spinning out before them with its music and colors and the dancing. And the lyrics! Oh, the lyrics. He felt raw, composure cut to the quick. But so, so alive.

Which was the only explanation he had for his behavior during the second act. A fantasy ballet sequence gave way to a song, so simple and haunting that he could feel the words working down his spine, turning his skin to gooseflesh.

A place for us. A _time_ for us. A new way of living, a way of forgiving. Take my hand –he did. He took her hand, tangling their fingers together in her lap. She started, turned to face him in the semidarkness.

"Julia." Tony was right –it was almost like praying. William brought his free hand up to her face, pushing back curls so that his fingers could trail across her cheekbone before slipping down to rest against the pulse point in the gentle curve of her neck. A surge of music pushed him forwards. He caught her mouth with his. She gasped between their lips, a breathy inhale giving way to a kiss.

Sweeter than wine. More intoxicating than absinthe.

The applause jolted them apart. There weren't words to describe how grateful he was for the darkness that hid his burning ears. Would she break his jaw now, or wait until they were out of the theater? But she had kissed him back. She hadn't let go of his hand, either. And now, when he risked a look out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smile, bite her lip, feign interest in the stage even as her grip tightened around his fingers.

Another half-hour. He could find a way to keep himself in check. How fortunate that there was a slew of death on its way. Nothing squashed stupid, infatuated looks better than a Shakespearean tragedy. He hoped.

They held hands straight through until the curtain call. As Tony lay dying, Julia had come close to resting her head on his shoulder, only to ease back into her own seat as Maria broke into keening sobs. Still, William joined the final ovation, even though he couldn't shake his irritation with the actress. She did have a lovely voice, he supposed.

Out on the sidewalk, William found himself at a loss. Without the cocoon of darkness in the theater and the steady comfort of plans –go here, do this, behave that way –he felt frozen to the pavement. Julia swept in, wrapped both her arms around one of his, and steered him down the block. He bent his elbow automatically. They could have been strolling in the park, except he could feel her pressing against his bicep, curling closer to him than would ever be considered proper.

"So you liked it." A statement, not a question. It struck him, then, that she must've been watching him watch the play. He wished he'd noticed.

"It was exquisite. The music during the ballets –and the other songs, too. Such incredible voices."

"Hmm. Tony's vibrato was a bit grating."

William blinked. Vibrato, gobos, the number of seats in the theater. "Julia," he stopped short, pulled off to the side, "I believe there's something you're not telling me."

"What?" She let go of his arm and stepped back to face him properly.

"You," he began, sidling closer, "Are a fan."

"I am not!"

"Gobos, vibrato?" he countered. Eyebrows raised, he edged farther and farther into her personal space. She rolled her eyes, but didn't shrink away when he let a tentative hand rest on her hip.

"Ruby got the tickets."

"Because she knew you'd want to go. It's a limited run, isn't it?" He had both hands on her waist now, just the barest weight. She huffed and stared off over his shoulder. "I promise not to tell George."

Her eyes snapped back. "You'd better not."

"Was that a confession, Julia?"

She sighed. Her hands were burning hot, searing through his shirt as she reached up to toy with his buttons. His skin thrummed. Alive, alive, alive.

"Okay," she relented, "Okay, I admit it. I like musicals."

"Have you any other notes about this particular performance?" William asked, "Tony's vibrato aside."

"Well, he didn't seem so bad towards the end of 'Somewhere.'" She slid her arms up around his neck. "But that might've been because I was _distracted_."

"I see." It was a constant battle to keep his voice from cracking. He could feel her, all of her, lean and soft where a corset had once been unyielding. "Did that detract from your experience?"

"Mine? No, I've seen it, like, eight times. But not everyone's a musical theater connoisseur. I'd be more concerned for a first-time viewer." Her fingers brushed through the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I didn't feel as if it had any detrimental effects."

"Mm, good. I was hoping for an encore."

"Such technical terms."

"Shut up." She pulled him close and nipped his lower lip between her teeth.

He did.


End file.
